


Division

by Luka



Series: We're a team [3]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 14:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18779911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: The end of the Premiership season is in sight, but Owen and George are still dealing with the implications of coming out.





	Division

**Author's Note:**

> There's cursing in this story, probably not surprisingly! And it follows on from Betrayal and United, which I've already posted.

George sat down on the bench in the changing room and closed his eyes briefly. He just wanted this fucking nightmare of a Premiership season to be over. At least they’d grabbed a bonus point in stoppage time against Harlequins – and that could mean the difference between staying up and dropping down into the Championship. He’d done the media interviews and shown his disappointment with the performance and the season as a whole before returning to a subdued bunch of players. They now had to hope that Gloucester beat Newcastle the next day to put the Falcons down.

Shit, he really wasn’t looking forward to the journey home when all he wanted to do was go across London to Owen’s. Instead, he was going to have to go all the way back to Leicester, then turn around and come south again. It would be really bad form for the captain not to go home with the team. 

As the tired and disheartened lads piled onto the coach, he adopted his usual seat when he was captain - about halfway back so that he could go and chat to each player easily. Jonny always sat in the seat across the aisle - it was easier for George to keep an eye on him while Jonny expounded his latest harebrained theory and confused the fuck out of the people around him. Tonight he was wittering about black holes in space and time travel. George, whose knowledge of the subject began and ended with Doctor Who, did his best to tune out.

Just as the coach joined the M1, George's dad came and sat next to him. He and Geordan had been chatting to everyone as well, and George envied his easy and relaxed manner with people.

"OK?"

George shrugged. He knew his dad could read him like a book.

“Nowt you can do for a few days apart from keeping the lads focussed and positive. Get some rest over the weekend and we’ll get back into it on Tuesday."

"I'm going to Owen's for a few days." It was out of his mouth before he could think twice.

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight, when we get back."

His dad raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment on the almost round-trip George would be doing that night. He was a professional to his fingertips and would have thought it distinctly off if George had not been on the coach home. "He's not playing tomorrow, is he?"

George shook his head. Saracens were putting out a second string against Exeter and were resting all the big names.

"You're both OK?"

George knew exactly what his dad was asking. "Nothing we can't deal with, thanks."

"Good. But watch yourselves. Ben told me about the crap you’ve been getting through the post.”

“He ripped it up so I didn’t have to read it.”

“Best thing to do with shit like that.”

“You think we should have kept quiet, don't you?"

His dad regarded him steadily for a moment or two. "I don't, as it happens. You're both the role models the sport needs, especially with idiots spouting homophobic shit, and you’re brave lads. But you both know it's not going to be easy. And you know your mum and I are always there if you want to talk things over."

“Thanks."

His dad nodded. “Let’s hope that bastard Folau doesn’t wriggle out of things.”

George grimaced. He was trying not to think about the hearing currently taking place in Australia. Funny how Folau had said god would decide if he stayed in the sport - and then hired a hotshot lawyer to represent him.

"Have a nap so you're not too tired for the drive. Set your phone alarm for 45 minutes. I'll keep Jonny entertained for a bit!"

"Thanks, dad." And they both knew those two words encapsulated so many things.

***

The power nap had helped, but George was flagging by the time he let himself quietly into Owen's house. It was after 1am, but Owen hadn't gone to bed – he was drowsing on the sofa, the TV on low in the background.

George sat down beside him, resting his head against Owen’s shoulder. He was so bloody tired …

“That bonus point could make all the difference,” said Owen pragmatically, kissing the top of George’s head.

“I hope so. And for once in my life I'll be cheering for Gloucester tomorrow. Or is it today?”

“Today,” said Owen, towing him towards the stairs.

***

It was the same nightmare again. They were in their shared hotel room on the England U18 tour of Argentina, the lights out. Their whispers were barely audible against the faint rumble of traffic from the street. And 15-year-old George, brave in the dark, had bared his soul to Owen, vocalising for the first time that he’d always known he was different to most lads and had no interest in girls. Even before the words were out of his mouth, the light had been snapped on and Owen had sat up in bed, face twisted in disgust, the words of hatred tumbling from his lips. 

He opened his eyes and half sat up, his breathing harsh and fast. Next to him Owen muttered in his sleep and turned over, arms instinctively reaching out for where George should be. He slid back under the duvet, wrapping his arms around Owen’s broad chest, the mantra stuck in his mind: “That didn’t happen, that didn’t happen …” He reminded himself how in reality Owen had reached out in the dim light for George’s hand and instinctively their fingers had entwined. And a low voice had said matter-of-factly: “Me too, our kid.”

***

"You don't have to come if you'd rather stay here and rest," said Owen around a mouthful of fruit and yoghurt. 

"Of course I'm coming." George knew that Owen wouldn’t dream of staying away from a Saracens game, whether he was being rested or not. And the wide grin he got in return was reward enough.

And Jamie's grin was just as wide when George and Owen walked into the players' lounge together, Owen immaculate in his suit and club tie and George feeling distinctly out of place in a suit and Leicester tie. Jamie greeted George with a bearhug. "Good to see you, Fordy. That bonus point last night could well do the trick."

"Hope so," said George, returning the hug. “And I’ll never be rude about Gloucester again if they stuff Newcastle this afternoon!” 

“Or at least not until the next time you get sledged by the Neanderthals in the Shed!” 

It was interesting to note other people's reactions. Maro came over and started chatting as normal, as did George Kruis. Richard Wigglesworth stuck his head around the door, greeted George cheerily, asked after Ben, then disappeared to get changed.

"Hey, Fordy!"

The voice behind him was unmistakable. And George was glad to see that Billy was looking awkward. So he just stared at him and took a faintly juvenile pleasure in the fact it was Billy who looked away first, and then moved off hurriedly.

Exeter were also resting their England contingent. George was still amused by Jack’s text message, complete with laughing emojis and love hearts: ‘You little devil!’ Sladey's had been typically understated - a thumbs-up.

The match was pretty much one-way traffic for Saracens. Owen and the others went into a huddle at the end, and George started to check the messages on his phone. And bloody hell, Gloucester had beaten Newcastle, so Leicester were safe from the drop. He felt a wave of relief wash over him and he began to tweet and to send out Instagram messages thanking all the supporters for sticking with them and vowing that the team would battle to win the final game of the season against Bath.

"Hello, George." Mako was regarding him unwaveringly, that softly-spoken Welsh accent so incongruous on the big, rugged England prop.

"Mako." George put his phone aside. And he knew he could pretty much wait anyone out.

Eventually Mako said: "Billy doesn't hate you and Faz, you know."

"Yeah? But he thinks we'll go to hell. And he clearly doesn't think we should be getting married despite the fact it’s perfectly legal. What about you, Mako? Do you agree with him?"

"We can’t let the whole thing detract from the World Cup preparations. We need to get along for team unity."

“So you’re saying that Faz and I should put up with shit for a quiet life?” George ignored for the moment that Mako had dodged his question.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“Look, you have to understand that we were brought up in a religious family. Our mum’s a minister …”

“That doesn’t mean you can peddle bigotry and hide behind religion while you do it. Plenty of other Christians wouldn’t dream of spouting homophobia. And I notice you dodged my question.”

George’s raised voice caused heads to turn. And Owen was by his side in an instant. “Everything OK, Fordy?”

“Mako seems to think we should keep our mouths shut for the sake of England unity.”

“Does he?” Owen’s glare was steely. 

“Faz, look, I’ve known you and Fordy for years and I genuinely want you both to be happy …”

“But …?” Owen hadn’t taken his eyes off Mako.

Mako looked away.

“Yeah, right. You and Billy might like to know that we told Eddie about us the moment Fordy joined the senior squad. And in case your brain is doing sums, George and I have never broken the law. Not that any of this is your fucking business. Come on Fordy, let’s get out of here.”

Owen thundered downstairs with George close behind. At the bottom of the stairs Jamie and Brad were deep in conversation. A load of kids saw their hero approaching and descended on Owen with their programmes and autograph books extended. 

Jamie turned around. “OK, lads? Everything …?”

“You’re a fucking disgrace, Ford! You only get into club sides because your dad’s the coach! And now you’re the England captain’s bum boy. Says it fucking all that you have to screw your way into the national side!” The Saracens supporter was absolutely bladdered and swaying dangerously. His mates were ineffectually trying to pull him back as he advanced on George. 

George stood his ground, his heart beating double-time, as Jamie and Brad got in front of a raging Owen, shoving him back hard. The incident had attracted the attention of two stewards and a load of fans from both clubs. One of the stewards had the presence of mind to look at the season ticket hanging around the guy’s neck and write down the details. And shit, a bloke with a BBC camera was filming away, and a lad next to him was scribbling in a notebook.

The drunk was still bawling insults as his mates tried again to steer him away. The steward who’d taken the initiative snapped: “Get him out of here now before I call the police. And we’re reporting this crap to the club.” George watched as a group of fans demanded that the steward took down their details too so that they could back him up on what they’d seen and heard.

The BBC cameraman and the guy with the notebook were bearing down on them. Brad hissed to Jamie: “Get Faz and Fordy out of here. I’ll deal with the journalists.”

Jamie nodded and pulled them back inside the building into one of the physiotherapy rooms. He put his hands on George’s shoulders and said: “You OK, Fordy?”

“I’m fine.” His breathing was steady, but he felt shellshocked by the abuse flung at him.

“Good lad. And Faz, show some bloody sense. Just think of all the shit that would have landed on your head if you’d twatted him.”

“He fucking deserved it! No fucker spouts that shit about us.”

“Of course he deserved it. But the club and the RFU wouldn’t see it in that light. And the bloody press are on to it already. That lad with a camera’s from the BBC and the other’s a rugby writer on one of the north London rags.”

Brad reappeared, looking grim.

“You got rid of them, skip?” asked Jamie.

Brad nodded. “I’ve just tipped off the press office and also booted it upstairs so they can ban the fucker. It’ll be all over the bloody media within seconds. It probably wasn’t the best idea to bring Fordy today, Faz.” 

“Yeah? So your missus won’t be coming to matches any more or to the end of season bash, then?”

“That’s diff...” Brad stopped and looked away. After a minute or so he said: “My wife isn’t an international rugby player. But you should still be able to bring your partner to a match without both of you being abused.”

“Yeah, whatever. Come on, Fordy, we’re out of here.”

***

They sat in silence in the car for some minutes, Owen gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white.

George rested his hand on Owen’s knee, and said: “Look, the Euro final next week, I’ll stay away …”

Owen’s blue eyes bored into him. “I want you there, our kid. Please.”

And George knew he couldn’t refuse Owen anything.


End file.
